Passing Grades
by roberre
Summary: A Passing Strange Fanfiction - used with permission. Nellie drags Sweeney into a charity ice hockey tournament - and with personal pride and a week's worth of homemade breakfasts riding on the outcome, the stakes run high. Two parts.
1. Part I

Passing Grades - Part I.

Tradition.

In some ways, Sweeney Todd is a groundbreaker. A pioneer. He's survived long enough to learn that stereotypical traditions hardly last and are rarely beneficial, and for the most part he prefers to ignore them completely. To do what he wants because he wants to. He finds things that work and blazes his own path. However, much to his chagrin, this particular routine is one he has never managed to shake. It is boring and pointless, but he's not quite sure how else to survive Saturday mornings without it.

By the time eleven o'clock rolls around, he is still only half dressed, wearing only a pair of track pants over his boxer shorts. Sitting in front of the television with a cup of coffee in one hand and a remote in the other hand, he slams his thumb down on the button that changes the channel, watching the screen flick from a fishing show to a colourful representation of 'Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles'. Mindlessly exchanging insults riddled with slang, the humanoid reptiles spend most of the show performing animated martial arts and eating pizza. If Todd wanted to watch this level of intellect, he would simply have gone visiting a few of his students.

So, mashing the buttons again, he finds the cooking channel. He is fifteen minutes earlier than usual. Reaching this level of utter boredom is usually a slower process, but his patience has been thin these last few days. He has little doubt what – or who, in this case – has caused this. Giving Louie a sideways glance, he angles his foot and pushes, as if removing her dog from the couch will evict her from his mind.

To keep the mutt from jumping back up, Todd swings both his legs off of the floor and stretches out the entire length of the couch, a tiny smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, he is positive that he has won this battle, but the basset hound simply stares at him with a mournful look and scrambles up onto the couch again, this time lying down on Sweeney's legs.

"Morning, love," Nellie greets from somewhere behind him. He doesn't answer, only raising his remote control in a silent acknowledgement of her presence. If he doesn't, the danger of her interrupting his day will just become that more probable. She sits down nimbly on the arm of the couch nearest to her dog and scratches his head, smiling when the brute blinks lazily and rolls over for a belly rub. She makes pathetic cooing noises and leans in to plant a kiss on his floppy ears.

Only by telling himself that he is not in any way jealous of a dog does Todd avoid growling out loud.

"While you're there, why don't you do something useful and get him off of my legs, love," Sweeney says, managing to keep his voice relatively soft so as not to incur the wrath of Lovett.

"An' 'ere I was just thinking 'ow 'andsome you two looked together." She puts her hands on her hips and sighs, shaking her head for a moment before pushing the dog to the floor. But before Todd can move his legs, Nellie takes the dog's spot on top of him.

He blinks. "That's hardly better." She has a rather bony rear, even through her plush flannel pyjamas, and he squirms. She doesn't move, smiling at him. She wants something. Todd knows it. The only times she has ever interrupted his cooking show is when she wants something. He takes a sip of his coffee and turns up the volume of the television another notch. The drone of the cook's speech on how to handle raw meat is unbroken for all of thirty seconds before Mrs. Lovett speaks his name, pulling his attention from the chicken fillet broiling on the screen.

"Sweeney."

"Mmm?" He turns to look at her, and she makes a point of getting off his legs. Once he straightens, he thanks her with a nod of his head. She shuffles beside him – the dog clambering up in turn beside her – and cosies up to his arm.

"Sweeney, love," she coos into his neck, reaching up to twist a finger through his tangled locks. He pulls away with a frown, but as she works her fingers over his scalp, he relaxes a bit. "Sweeney."

"What?"

"'Ave I told you lately 'ow wonderful you are?"

He turns to stare at her, eyebrow raised. "Last week, actually. When you wanted me to sit through 'The Adventures of Milo and Otis' with you." She had known perfectly well that he did not do 'animal friendship' movies, but her powers of persuasion had been too much to resist. Admittedly, the movie had been almost forgotten about in the midst of that same persuasion, but it still irked him that she had gotten her way. "And whatever it is this time, no."

"And 'ow do you know that I want something? What if I'm just madly in love with you?"

For a moment, he's not sure what to make of that. If she's serious or not. But when she turns away to let out a dry laugh, he chuckles too and shakes his head, trying to alleviate the sudden tension. He expels a sigh and fixes her with the most irritated stare he can muster. "What do you want?"

"Well, since you asked..." she says, and gives him a twisted smile, "I want to ask you a question."

"Spit it out, Eleanor." The main course on the television is nearly prepared, and the chef is busily chopping up green onions with such ferocious speed that Sweeney finds himself itching to attempt a similar feat. Surely centuries of experience can compete with professional teaching...

"Hockey."

"What?" He has missed everything that she had been saying and he turns to her, scowling. "What about hockey?"

"Ice hockey." She throws up her hands. "I want to play."

"Then go bloody play."

"With you, love," she says, pouting. "I want to play with you."

"I'm not playing ice hockey," he tells her.

"Why not, love? You used to. Came all the way up to Canada to see one of your games, I did."

Todd remembers that, too. It had been a literal lifetime ago, on a pond on the outskirts of Montreal during the tail end of the Great Depression, but he remembers it as clearly as every other memory of her. She is always somehow branded into his history; his most vivid recollections are of her face, and during that particular game, she had cheered louder than anyone else on the sidelines.

He tries to distract her. "I didn't know you played." She could skate like the wind, but he'd never seen her with a stick, or with proper hockey skates on.

"You don't know a lot of things about me, love," she says. She's right. "But really, I don't know why you won't play. Are you scared I'll beat you?"

"No," he says, perhaps more forcefully than he intended.

"I think you are."

"I'm not scared."

"Prove it."

"Fine."

She smiles at him, and he realizes with a groan that she's won. "Thanks love. I knew you'd agree," she says. "You better find some equipment or something. We play our first game at six."

"Our _first_ game_,_ Eleanor?"

"Oh, did I forget to tell you? It's a tournament. Sponsored by the 'ospital. Runs through today and tomorrow." She grabs a flyer from under the magazines that litter the coffee table and set it on his lap. He grits his teeth and skims over the headline, crumpling it into a tight fist. "It's for a good cause, love. Charity benefit, and all."

"I'm not going," he says pointedly, and crosses his arms.

"Sweeney, come on. You're acting like a child." She sighs and takes the flyer from him, smoothing it out and setting it back on the table. "Plus," she says, "I already signed us up."

xxxx

They've been half walking – half jogging along the winding paths of Central park for fifteen minutes, not including the five minute stop to order a couple of hotdogs and a few other snacks to effectively counteract their calorie burning, when Nellie finally brings up the subject of her earlier conversation with Sweeney.

"And you convinced him to go?" Nellie is not sure that Carol's jaw can drop any further away from the rest of her face, but apparently it can.

Laughing, she shakes her head with a condescending smile and shrugs. " 'e said 'e 'ad nothing better to do... so why not?" Truthfully, having nothing to do had never inspired Todd to participate in any of her other wild ideas, but she's struck lucky with this one.

Brushing a few strands of blonde hair from her face, Carol deviates off the path they are following and throws the plastic lid to her cup into the garbage can. Steam puffs up from it and she clutches it between her colourful woollen mittens and breathes in the steam greedily. "You must be... I dunno, Wonder Woman or something. Honestly, Ellie, what did you do to the man?" When Nellie just shrugs, Carol's eyes light up and she hides a wide smirk behind her drink, daring to take a sip. "You _have_ to tell me. Never know, it could come in handy with Tom." She waggles her eyebrows and dodges a swat, nearly spilling coffee down her front.

"It was nothing like that at all," Nellie says. "All I did was –" she waits until Carol leans forward expectantly and then whispers, "- asked 'im nicely." The groan her answer produces is satisfying and she opens the bag of chips she has been carrying in the pocket of her sweater, popping a few into her mouth.

"How nicely is nicely?"

Nellie rolls her eyes. "I'm choosin' to ignore that."

Carol was evidently still having trouble believing her; she forgot that Nellie has centuries of experience trying to get Sweeney to cooperate with her often spur of the moment plans. "So you asked him nicely... and now you're both playing ice hockey?" Carol steals a chip, somehow managing to grab one without removing her bulky mittens.

"It's only one tournament," Nellie says as she shrugs her hands further into her sleeves, "An' it's for a good cause."

"What cause?" Carol demands, raising an eyebrow. "Not that I can complain. The thought of seeing Sweeney all sweaty and delicious, bedecked in hockey gear, is a cause in itself."

Nellie makes a face, though inwardly she can't fault Carol's logic. "I dunno. One of the usual ones. Cancer. Child hunger. Aids. Something."

"Good to see you're informed."

"Obviously, love," she says through a mouthful of chips. "Now can you 'elp me or not?"

Carol looks at her for a moment as if seriously considering it, and then relents with a sigh. "Well if it's for those hungry children with cancer and HIV, how can I say no?"

Nellie nods and offers her friend a few more chips as a thanks offering. "First thing's first, I need some equipment."

"That shouldn't be too much trouble, Ellie. Y'know Tom's neice? She has some stuff, and I'm pretty sure she's about the same size as you."

Being compared to the relative stature and build as a fourteen year old is either very disheartening, or very encouraging considering her age, and Nellie's not quite sure how to take the remark. "An' she doesn't need her gear for tonight or tomorrow?"

"N'ah," Carol says, waving her hand. "She's been out with a torn knee ligament. You know how competitive girls at her age can be..." she trails off dangerously.

"Not really," Nellie says, frowning.

"Well, take my word for it, that level of girl's hockey is fierce. It's like 'I went to a catfight and a hockey game broke out.'"

Nellie stares at her for a split second. "Come up with that all by yourself?" she asks, and gets only a stuck out tongue in return.

"What's the second thing you need?" Carol asks.

"Can you look after Louie?" This was part of the deal she cut with Sweeney. Well, the only part that actually mattered to him.

"Sure Ellie, any time. I love the little scamp to death."

"'Ow about for two weeks?" She grits her teeth and hopes for the best – which in this case would include Carol not dropping her coffee all over the ground. Thankfully, Carol manages to catch the cup in mid drop before it completely empties of liquid, but her facial expression is no less shocked than Nellie's prediction.

Draining the rest of her coffee, she blinks a couple of times.

Nellie decides it's safer to take this as a yes. "Thanks, love," she says with a smile. "I'll bring 'im over before the game tonight."

xxxx

"Man, she must be into hypnosis or something. You say she got you to say yes by just asking?"

Deciding that it might not be wise to mention the dog if Nellie hasn't sprung the news on the unsuspecting pet sitters, Sweeney shrugs. "It seems that way. Now are you going to keep on gawking, or are you going to help me choose a stick?"

"Alright, alright," Tom throws his hands up defensively. He moves to the rack and picks a gleaming white stick from it, turning it over in his hands. "How about this one?" It has black words scrawled along the shaft, advertising a name brand of hockey gear, and an orange design blazoned across the blade and partway up the stick. Tom tosses it to Sweeney, who catches it only inches away from his face and stares at it. "It's one of those fancy composite things."

Todd raises an eyebrow and examines it critically. Especially considering that he carved his last stick from a solid hickory sapling he all but felled himself, the material it's fashioned from is surprisingly light. He holds it in his hand and places the blade on the ground, leaning into it to test the flex. After a moment of careful inspection, he scans the bar code and tosses it back to Tom. "I don't suppose you managed to check the price tag."

Tom's grinning mouth contracts into an 'o' of surprise as he follows Todd's suggestion, and he carefully replaces the stick. "It's a shame, really," he says, running his fingers along the gleaming white surface. "You'd look pretty darn pro with this thing in your hands."

"And I will look just as 'pro' with a nice wooden stick, I'm certain."

Tom scoffs. "Do they even make those things anymore?"

"Where there are trees, there will be wooden hockey sticks," Sweeney proclaims, and after turning the corner to the opposite side of the rack, there is an entire line of them. After skimming past a few that are painted to resemble their more expensive counterparts, Todd takes a rather plain one into his hands and once again tests the feel. It is sturdy, if not a little weighty, but he is confident that it will satisfy his needs. And his wallet. Nearly grinning at the twenty-five dollar price tag, he totes it to the checkout counter of the sporting goods section of the department store and stands in the line up.

"Do you need anything else besides these?" Tom asks, following him with a roll of hockey tape and a pair of skate laces in his hands. "Like... actual equipment?"

Sweeney shakes his head. It may be a little dated, but he has saved his hockey equipment for a rainy day, and he's not going to buy hundreds of dollars worth of useless stuff just to play a couple of games of non contact hockey. Although if his memory serves him correctly, and it usually does, hockey is never really 'non contact'.

xxxx

"'Ave you found that bloody thing yet?" Nellie calls into the other room, taking a few steps to round the corner into Carol's disaster-area kitchen. The room looks like the stove, blender, and microwave all blew up and upended the cutlery drawers in the process. Almost completely spotless where food is involved – everything glistens of pure white and stainless steel – there are newspapers, magazines, spoons, and pots littering the counters and floor. Not to mention boxes of things yet to be unpacked.

Carol emits a half scream half growl in frustration and chucks a still sealed bag of tablecloths over her shoulder. It skids across the floor and crashes into a package of spaghetti. "I hate new apartments."

"I could just use your cellphone," Nellie says, trying to help. She had forgotten hers somewhere on her coffee table back at the apartment, along with her work pager, sunglasses, and her keys.

"No good. Battery's dead." A couple cookbooks fly through the air and land atop the tablecloths.

Nellie sighs and leans against the wall. A few strands of hair have escaped her sloppy ponytail, and she tucks them behind her ears, stealing a glance over her shoulder. The dining room table is piled with cardboard pizza boxes and empty coke bottles, the only remnant of her and Carol's rather unhealthy pregame meal. Beneath the tablecloth, Nellie can spot four stomping paws and a rotund belly pushing something across the floor. Frowning, she scoots back into the dining room and rounds the table.

"Oi, Louie! Get outta there, right now!" Nellie snaps her fingers and shoots a withering glare at the dog, who is in the process of shoving his head into a discarded cardboard takeout container that had once housed a couple pounds of barbecue wings. The dog whimpers and backs up a few steps, sitting down on his haunches and tilting his head at her. "Come on, love, don't tell me you're hungry. I gave you two pieces of pizza already, and I know for a fact that Carol was sneakin' cheese bread to you under the table."

Rounding the corner from the kitchen into the living room, phone clutched in her white-knuckled grip, Carol crosses her arms. "I did no such thing."

Nellie raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Carol shakes her head. "'Course not. It was potato wedges." She glances to Louie, pouts, and then hands Nellie the telephone. "Turn it on, then turn it off again, and THEN dial."

"I do know 'ow to use a phone, you know."

"Not this phone. I swear it's possessed." She shoots it a glare as if to prove her point.

Nellie stares at the buttons. It doesn't look evil. "Why don't you get a new one?"

Carol looks offended. "It's _my_ possessed phone. Just remember, on, off, then dial."

Deciding not to tempt fate by toying with evil phones, Nellie follows Carol's instructions and puts it to her ear. The phone makes a groaning connecting sound, a wavering series of squawks and bleeps, and then rings. "Oh, can you get that away from Louie?" she asks, covering the mouthpiece and gesturing to the dog with her head. "'is obedience usually lasts about five seconds." She turns and begins pacing as she waits for the other end to pick up, keeping an ear on Carol to make sure she doesn't try to feed the already chubby hound anything else.

Unsurprisingly, Sweeney ignores her call and the answering machine picks up.

"Hi, you've reached Eleanor Lovett's apartment. If this is an emergency, you'll probably already have paged me, and if not, leave a message."

Nellie waits for the beep and then starts yelling at Sweeney over the intercom. "SWEENEY. Pick up the phone. I know you're there. Get off the couch, or out of the shower, or swallow your food, or whatever, and push the bloody talk button on the bloody phone." She pauses for about five seconds. "I'm waiting... still waiting... come on, love, you know I won't stop until-"

The phone clicks and beeps. She hears him breathing over the other line for a moment before he snaps, "What?" He sounds perturbed.

"Good to 'ear your cheery voice, love," Nellie says, smiling widely. She can just imagine the look on his face. "What took you so long?"

"I was shaving."

Nellie bites her lip to keep from laughing aloud at him. "Jus' mind you don't get shaving cream all over the phone. Anyways, I just called to tell you that I'm sleepin' over at Carol and Tom's tonight."

"Fine."

"An' Tom's sleepin' over there with you. You can 'ave a boy's night, and do whatever it is you do. Watch bloody movies. Scream at re-runs of football. That sounds fun, eh?"

There's a long pause. "He's not sleeping here."

"Well it's not like you 'ave a choice, love. 'E 'as a key."

"What?" His voices raises an octave or so.

" Listen, 'e can 'ave the couch-"

"You gave him a key?"

Nellie buts in again before Todd can go any further. "- an' 'e's bringin' 'is own blanket and pillows an' stuff, so you won't 'ave to play 'ostess."

"You gave him a _key, _Eleanor. To our _home._"

"No. I gave him a key to the garbage truck down the street. Yes, to our 'ome. Plus, it's _my_ apartment if you recall, so I can give keys to whoever I want." She rolls her eyes when he growls at her over the phone. "Anyways, I jus' wanted to call to ask if you'll bring my cellphone."

"Fine."

"And to remind you that your game is at 6. So you'll want to be there half an hour early, which means you should probable leave in an hour."

"Fine."

"An' don't forget to eat a good dinner. There's leftover chicken in the fridge, and salad in the crisper-"

"Eleanor, goodbye."

"Oh, an' Tom'll be over as soon as he..." _Click. "_... drops my equipment off." Sighing, Nellie lets her hands fall to her side. "Men," she says in exasperation, handing the phone to Carol.

"Can't live with them, can't live without them. " The moment Nellie looks at her, Carol's stony expression disappears and she dissolves into a fit of giggles. "Or at least... y'know, certain parts of them."

Nellie is about to comment when a large hockey bag is propelled through the air and lands at her feet. Louie takes off across the room and hides in the kitchen; she can hear his claws slipping and sliding across the tile as he seeks to escape this new menace. Tom pokes his head into the room. She gives him a quick wave and zips open the bag, staring inside with a grin. This is nice equipment. And it doesn't even smell too bad.

Casually sliding past Nellie, Tom wraps his arm around Carol. "I couldn't help but hear your conversation," he says. "And I just have one question: which part of men might that be?"

"Your wonderful lips, of course," Carol says without missing a beat, rising on her tip toes to plant a long kiss on his mouth. "Did you think I meant something else? Get your mind out of the gutter. Honestly, Ellie, can you believe I'm marrying such a perv?"

"Not if I didn't see it with my own eyes, love." Nellie says, shrugging. Having apparently decided that a hockey bag is nothing to fear, Louis sniffs around her feet for a moment before jamming his entire head into the bag. He's about two seconds away from fully climbing in when Tom grabs him by the collar and drags him away, quickly distracting him with a belly rub.

Carol goes down and kneels beside her fiancé, jutting out her bottom lip. "Are you mad at me?"

Tom nods, lowering his eyebrows and jutting out his jaw in an expression that makes him resemble a neanderthal. "Furious."

" Well, I'm sorry I called you names," she says in a sickly-sweet voice, cupping his jaw in her hand. "I really do love you." She uses her finger to pull her lip down even more for effect.

Tom straightens and draws her into a hug, barely managing to keep a straight face as he quietly proclaims, "I think you're slightly better than average too, Carol."

xxxx

The hockey bag nearly falls apart when Sweeney drags it out from storage. He's not even sure why he bothered to keep it, but – then again – he's been paying the storage facility to keep his junk out of sight and out of mind for years, so it hasn't bothered him. And now his equipment will see the light of day for the first time in close to fifty years.

Kicking the bag across the cement floor, Todd passes a hundred other useless artefacts. He's not so much keeping them as neglecting to dispose of them – very few actually carry any sentimental value – but if he adds more he's going to have to rent another room. Each movement stirs up another thick cloud of dust, and Todd laments that he has never bothered to mend the strap on his bag. It takes him a good ten minutes to shuffle towards the door. He's a few steps away when the door swings open, illuminating the cavernous storage chamber, and nearly blinding him.

"Thought you got lost in there," Tom says, blinking at the darkness with the same expression Sweeney reserves for the onslaught of light. When both of their eyes adjust, Tom looks around for the bag. When he finds it, he freezes. "You've got to be kidding," he says.

Todd scowls. "And what would I be kidding about?"

"Man, this thing is going to fall apart if I even touch it." Tom goes down on one knee and gently blows across the top of the bag. Dust flies into the air, and Tom covers his mouth and nose with his shirt. He runs his hand along the top and fumbles for the zipper, which is nearly invisible against the faded material. With only a little difficulty, because of the rust, he manages to open it. And then he raises an eyebrow and stares at Sweeney, open-mouthed. "You didn't tell me your equipment was from the stone age!"

"Hardly. It dates back to..." well, around the thirties. "...before your time."

"You're not _that_ old, Sweeney. That stuff's vintage. Like... grandpa, vintage."

"They were hand-me-downs."

"From who, Julius Caesar? You cannot seriously be playing in this."

If Tom were a student, Todd would have flunked him for a comment like that. "For one, Julius Caesar did not play ice hockey," he says, holding up a single finger. "And two," the other finger flicks up as quickly as the blade of one of his old razors, "this equipment was good enough in 'the stone age', and it is good enough now."

Shrugging, evidently not willing to argue his point, Tom scoops up the battered hockey bag and cradles it like a baby. "You're going to die, man."

Todd smirks. "I highly doubt that."

xxxx

"Ellie, do you know how awkward that looks?" Carol's fit of giggles are not helpful in the least, proving to be an unwelcome distraction as Eleanor desperately attempts to adjust her equipment.

"It's not my fault, Carol. I 'ave to nip this in the bud before it gets worse."

"Nip it in the butt, rather."

Pausing, arms shoved down the inside of her oversized hockey shorts, Nellie takes the opportunity to glare at her friend. "Shut up. You 'aven't experienced hell until you've 'ad to deal with a goalie equipment wedgie all game. And it's not like you can fix it on the ice, especially wearing all that." She gestures frantically to the corner of the room with her chin, drawing attention to the pile of equipment.

"I still don't see why it's that bad."

"Well, it's not. Except that it's unfixable, uncomfortable, and totally distractin' to the game. Your knickers get twisted, but there's pants and gloves between you and relief. Not to mention you're tryin' to stand in front of a movin' puck and actually stop it. And then you're laden down with leg pads, neck guard, helmet... an' that chest pad with the arms? There's a reason they call it goalie 'armour', love. You can't turn your body around enough to reach back there." Managing to grab a corner of her underwear between two fingers, Nellie straightens it and sighs with relief, fishing her arms back out of her hockey pants.

"Success?" Carol asks, standing from her seat on the dressing room bench to pick out the next piece of equipment for her friend. "What's next?"

"Leg pads."

Carol picks up one of the leg pads and stares at it. "These things are like walls. Little... blue and white... colourful leather walls. With buckles."

Too amused to bother regulating her volume, and knowing that there's nobody in the dressing rooms to either side of her, Nellie lets out a gigantic peal of laughter. "That was eloquence at its peak, love. I don't think I will ever hear goalie pads described so poetically again."

Annoyed, Carol rolls her eyes and attempts to throw the pad at Nellie's head. She underestimates its weight, and it thuds to the ground at least two feet before reaching its target. Smiling and nodding her thanks, Nellie takes a few steps to fetch it. She feels horribly awkward, with gigantic hockey pants covering her pelvis – in her opinion, she looks like an oompa loompa on skates – and nothing but hockey socks on her legs and a sports bra and t-shirt over her torso. But she manages to drag the pads closer to her, and she kneels down on them, twisting around at a weird angle to begin doing up the buckles. Already, she can feel her undergarments beginning to slide. "Give me five minutes in the net, an' I bet you I'll 'ave a wedgie again."

"Why don't you wear shorts that... don't wedgie."

"Carol, such things don't exist. An' I've been around long enough to know."

Silence lapses for a few moments as Nellie tightens the pads around her legs. The buckles jingle as she works, instinctively reminding Nellie of irritating Christmas carols. As if to add to the festivities, Carol grabs a tin of shortbread out of her purse and opens it, taking a handful of cookies before sliding it across the floor to Nellie.

"Want some?"

Nellie eyes the cookies suspiciously. "Where'd they come from?" Shortbread usually doesn't come out in the stores for at least another month."

Carol shrugs. "Somewhere in my apartment. Don't know from when, but they taste okay."

Nellie picks one up and holds it to the light. "No mold?" Carol shakes her head. "Insects?" Head shake. "Stale?"

"They're yummy, Ellie. Eat one."

Nellie needs no more persuasion. She pops one into her mouth and continues getting dressed.

The cookies last all of five minutes.

xxxx

"Well, at least you have a proper jock."

Despite his constant protesting that the old equipment was good enough for him, Todd wasn't going to take a chance with a seventy-year old cup. "If it's not too much of an inconvenience... shut up." Todd pulls his hockey pants over top of his jock – which the sports stores now tactfully label 'athletic support' – and then sits down on the bench, leaning forward to pick up his skates.

Todd had sharpened them earlier, but there is nothing worse than a pair of dull skates, so he reaches into the pocket of his discarded trousers and pulls out a sharpening stone, dragging it along the blade to get that extra edge. The movement is soothing, a familiar action, and it only takes a moment before the blades gleam, sharper than any machine could hope to achieve. He puts them on and laces them up, standing and shifting his feet to test the fit. His feet haven't grown any, and there are no cracks in the leather – so he figures that he'll be fine.

More than fine, actually.

"Holy – " Tom's intended explicative dies in his throat, and he pulls out a red, white, and blue woollen sweater. Jaw slack, he turns it over in his hands, revealing a large 'C' stitched onto the front. "The guy you got this gear from played for the Montreal Canadiens?"

Todd nods. "Three seasons. Got 70 goals and 50 assists his last year." And then Sweeney had gone back to playing amateur. His decision proved wise; a few seasons later, the Habs won the Stanley Cup again, and his name would have been engraved on the cup for eternity. He was already stuck here forever – the last thing he wanted to do was leave another legacy. The war had broken out a year after that.

"Who'd you say gave this to you, again?"

"I didn't." And he isn't likely to give Tom any more information than a vague, fake relation.

"Relative?" The man just won't stop prying.

"Uncle," Todd finally says as he finishes lacing his skates. He grabs his jersey from Tom and pulls it over his head, adjusting his elbow pads.

"Name?"

Rolling his eyes, Todd slides his ancient leather gloves over his hands and grabs his stick from its place against the wall. "Doesn't matter. He's dead now." And that is that. At least as far as Todd is concerned. Tom continues throwing questions at him, but he doesn't answer. Quickly scooping up his newly purchased helmet from the bench, he pushes the heavy door open and walks out into the hallway, which is padded – like the dressing rooms – with a skate resistant material that resembles rubber.

"Sweeney! Over 'ere!" Nellie's voice only barely travels over the sound of the ice resurfacing machine that roars nearby, and it takes him a minute to figure out which direction he should be looking in. When he catches a glimpse of a frantically waving hand, he pushes past the other people crowding the hall. "You're a bloody blast from the past, love."

Todd blinks. If Nellie's voice wasn't so obviously coming from inside that ridiculous, over-painted helmet, he never would have recognized her. "And you're a goalie."

Though her features are somewhat obscured by the metal bars of her helmet, Nellie's eyes widen in shock. Mouth falling open into an 'o', she looks down at herself, flexing her knees beneath the heavy leg pads. "You're right! Imagine that."

Sweeney communicates his indignation with a well practiced glare. "I didn't know you played net."

Lovett shrugs. "You didn't know I played hockey, either." She makes a good point. "Anyways, I jus' wanted to tell you that you're not goin' to score on me."

Todd narrows his eyes, tilting his head slightly. "Aren't you on my team?"

She snorts in amusement, taking her helmet off to brush a few wayward curls from her face. "No. You think I wanted to play 'ockey with you so tha' we could be on a team? Dream on, love, I want to beat the crap out of you."

"Is that a challenge?"

She smiles, absently smacking the flat of her hockey stick against her leg pads. "Per'aps. But you're only playing my team if you win this game first." She smacks him in the chest with her catching glove to punctuate her words.

Well, he certainly doesn't plan on losing. The roar of the ice resurfacing machine fades into silence as it drives off the rink and into the machine room. Without a word, Todd turns and stalks down the hall.

He turns only once to see Nellie pointing at him with her stick and shouting. "So you better bloody win!"

* * *

**A/N:** Merry Christmas everyone! 8D I know this story has nothing to do with Christmas, but I wrote this an age and a half ago and finally got permission from my dearest beloved Pamena to post it. ^_^ So this is a Christmas present to all of you... andyeah. ^^ I hope you enjoy it.

IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER:

I pretty much don't own anything. I own the idea of PS Nellie and Todd playing hockey. That's about it. Tim Burton owns some stuff, NHL owns some stuff, and Pam owns all the other stuff. Also, I asked permission to post this. Things get ugly, otherwise. So please please nobody write a Passing Strange fanfic and post it without clearing it with Pam, or everyone's privileges will be revoked and everything will be very sad. And we would not want that to happen. -shakes head-


	2. Part II

Passing Grades - Part II

Sweeney's first step on the ice feels a little like coming home again. A little like sitting down on Nellie's couch for the first time in a decade, or opening a letter that she wrote him in the twenties and re-reading it just because he wants to. It's familiar, comfortable - until his skate catches an edge and he falls flat on his face. He can't blame it on the bumps, either... after hundreds of years, mankind has finally mastered the art of creating a flat ice surface.

Sighing, Todd picks up his stick and stands, skating to the bench to deposit his water bottle on the floor. He adjusts his helmet (doing up the strap this time) and begins a slow skate around his team's end, trying to get a feel for the ice. The other players begin to file onto the ice, most of Sweeney's team falling in behind him as he increases his speed, taking tighter corners and a lower stance. Shivers erupt down his spine, but whether from the arctic chill of the wind on his face or the thrill of speed that feels almost like flying, he isn't sure.

"Hey, nice duds, man." A blonde faux-hawk kid shoves his helmet on and gives Todd a thumbs up.

Eleanor had obviously signed him up for the highest skill level of the tournament, meaning that he was now playing amongst a group of mostly twenty-and-thirty-something young men straight out of university hockey. A couple veterans joined the mix – in their youth, they probably could have skated circles around the youngsters – and even though the practice had just started, they were the clear leaders.

"You ready, grandpa?" This one, with brown hair down to his shoulders and a scraggly attempt at a goatee wires a puck just past Sweeney's head. He has a momentary vision of running the brat through with his stick.

Todd adjusts his gloves. He's ready for anything.

xxxx

When Todd said he was ready for anything, he had forgotten how much it hurt when a two-hundred-fifty pound defence slams him into the boards. His breath vacates his body as his lungs, chest, ribs, and shoulders meet somewhere in the centre of his body, and stars explode in his head as he crumples to the ice. He hears the man leave, the sound of his skates vanishing behind the shouts of the players and the hiss of blades shaving layers off the ice.

Every inch of his body hurts. The end of the first period, only minutes to go, and his lungs feel like they'll explode at any minute. Not to mention he hasn't scored a single goal. Against children. Against amateurs. It's humiliating. He hates ice hockey.

Seconds after falling, Todd is on his feet again, skating at break-neck speed towards the center of the ice, weaving around defenders with the desperation borne from the knowledge Nellie will haunt him for eternity if his team doesn't win. His arms pump in tandem with his legs and he curls around the boards to ram his opponent into the boards with a perfectly legal check that leaves the other man reeling. He steals the puck and passes it back to the point. The puck dances around the zone like a pinball, never stationary. And then the brat with the scraggly goatee shoots.

It slams into the goalie's leg pad with a heavy 'thud'. And it pops back out again.

Todd is there in a second, past the mammoth defence, past the hotshot left-winger. And the puck is his. He lifts it with his stick, and it rockets over the goalie's shoulder, connecting with the top right corner of the net.

The buzzer goes.

Second period, and they lead 2-1.

Sweeney Todd has his goal.

xxxx

The opposing team has talent, but when Todd buries his third goal through the goaltender's legs, they begin to get a little frustrated. Half way through the third period, the game stands 5-2 in favour of Todd's team. Confident, no longer recognizing the distant ache of his muscles, Todd skates to the bench as the referee heads to centre ice for the face off. He vaults over the boards and slides onto his seat beside Faux-hawk.

"Nice move," he says, nodding his appreciation to Todd's goal.

Todd nods once in response and squirts his water bottle over his face before directing a stream into his mouth.

"Where do you play?"

Giving a slight shrug, leaning forward to watch the game, Todd sighs. "Nowhere."

"Did you play in school or something? You're like, pro. You could make NHL if you wanted to." And if he was twenty years younger.

"Did." Todd says, and immediately regrets it when the boy's eyes grow larger than oranges.

"Dude, I'll look you up!"

"Don't."

"Can I at least have your autograph? After the game, I mean."

Todd stares at him. "No."And hops back on the ice just as another team-mate jumps through the door.

They win, 6-3. And the next game 4-2.

xxxx

Sweeney leaves the dressing room a full twenty minutes after the rest of the team, enjoying the peace and quiet an empty dressing room offers. By the time he drags his disintegrating bag into the hallway, sleep lurks at the forefront of his thoughts. If he could collapse into bed right now, he would be the happiest man in the world.

Two games down, three more to go. Sweeney hopes Armageddon begins before tomorrow.

Leaving his bag beside the water fountain, Sweeney wanders down the hall and into the arena where Nellie's team finishes up the final minutes of their third period. They lead 2-1, and judging the uproarious cheering that assaults his ears when he opens the door, it's an exciting game. He wanders along the stands and finds Carol and Tom, mostly by the ear-piercing cheers. Carol could rival a high soprano with the volume and tone of her squeals.

She jumps to her feet, spilling popcorn all over the floor. "GOOO ELLIEEE!"

"She's playing really well!" Tom says when Sweeney sits down next to him, shouting to be heard over the crowd... and Carol. "I didn't know she could play like that!"

Staring down the ice at Eleanor, who deflects the puck into the corner and springs to her feet in one smooth motion, looking for all the world like she was born in that ungainly equipment, even Sweeney feels his exhilaration growing. The opposing team fires a shot from the point, and she catches it. The opposing team (with five men, versus Eleanor's three because of a series of penalties) tries weaving around her, and she stops them. They pass back and forth, but wherever they move, she counters them.

She's good.

The buzzer goes, and Carol practically explodes in a flurry of blonde hair and popcorn. Eleanor's team files past her, tapping her helmet, whacking her leg pads with affection.

She's very good.

xxxx

Over the constant hiss of the shower, the splatter of water across his back, Sweeney Todd hears the apartment door open. He sighs through his nose and closes his eyes, listening to Tom set his bags down, imagining the man poking about the living room, probably leafing through the embarrassing makeup-and-fashion magazines Eleanor left on the coffee table, or testing the buttons on the remote. At least he doesn't try to disturb Sweeney's shower – the noise of running water is enough of a giveaway as to his whereabouts.

The warm water relaxes Sweeney's taut muscles, and few good stretches loosen him completely. But the edge in his mind refuses to budge, stubborn as Eleanor when she doesn't get her way, and even when he rinses the shampoo from his hair and steps down onto the bathmat, he feels like his brain is running a hundred miles an hour. He had forgotten adrenaline. He had forgotten the way it feels to be dropping dead with exhaustion and simultaneously gearing up to run an Olympic marathon. Until now. Now he remembers.

Todd pulls on an old t-shirt and a pair of lounge pants and brushes his teeth, even though he knows it'll be at least another hour before he can even consider sleeping. He leaves the bathroom, a towel thrown around his neck, hair dripping around his face, and emerges from the hall to see Tom with his knees on the counter, rummaging through their kitchen cupboards. He clears his throat.

Tom nearly falls off the counter, scrambling to grab the cupboard door. "Hey Sweeney," he says, his hand over his heart but otherwise unphased. "What's up?"

Sweeney's jaw tightens involuntarily. "What are you doing?" he asks, a droplet of water beginning a slow crawl down his back.

"Looking for your popcorn. Found a bowl, though." Tom pulls a metal bowl from the cupboard and hops down, shrugging. "A little help?"

Glancing behind him to the living room (the magazines had indeed been flipped through, and Tom had moved the remote), Todd steps forward and pulls a jar of kernels from one cupboard, the popcorn maker from another, and drops them both on the counter beside Tom.

"Ah. Gracias." Tom pours the kernels into the machine and flips the switch, moving to the fridge to grab the butter. "You played a good game tonight," he says.

Sweeney moves to the couch and grabs the remote. He grunts a response, letting his head loll back against the couch, shifting positions. He begins to flick channels in the vague hope that he'll find something good on t.v., or at least something that will put him to sleep. Perhaps he could watch that Milo and Otis film again...

"I mean, you really surprised me. I didn't know you could play so well. Either of you." The popcorn machine begins to roar, a vacuum-cleaner in reverse. "But man, some of those checks were brutal. You must be hurting something fierce."

Frowning, Sweeney runs his hand along his ribcage. Sore enough, at least. "What are you getting at?"

"I just thought that maybe you'd be just that much better... and safer... if you had some new gear."

Sweeney rolls his eyes and twists around to stare at Tom. "For the last time, I'm not buying any new gear."

Tom holds his hands up in front of him, looking worried that Sweeney might throw the remote at his head. Which is a possibility. "I know." The popcorn begins to explode. "I brought you some. It's in the car."

"What?"

"Yeah," Tom says, a smile creeping over his face. "Yeah, from my brother-in-law. Ellie's using his daughter's gear right now. Whole hockey family, everyone plays except the dog, pretty much. Anyways, he's out of town for the weekend, and I figured I'd stop by on the way back here..." he shrugs. "He's a pretty scrawny dude, so I figure his stuff will probably fit you pretty well. Even if it doesn't, though, at least it's from this century."

Sweeney scowls, unsure how to take the gesture. He watches the man mix the butter into the popcorn for a moment before answering. "You're still sleeping on the couch."

Tom just gives him a thumbs-up.

xxxx

The phone rings. At six a.m.

Sweeney growls and buries his head under his pillow, but he's only delaying the inevitable.

Eleanor's voice blares over the answering machine the moment it picks up. "Morning sleepy 'eads!" He briefly considers pulling the phone line out of the wall. "I'm just callin' from the evil phone to remind you that your first game is in two an' a 'alf hours, an' that you both need to get your butts out of bed before we 'ave to come over there."Silence for a minute. "An' make sure you eat breakfast."

Carol in the background: "AND BRING DOUGNUTS! Tom, are you listening? I'm talking to you. Doughnuts."

"An' coffee," Eleanor interjects.

"Definitely coffee."

"I think that's it. Now someone answer the phone so I know you're up."

Carol again: "The yelling will commence in five – four – three –"

Sweeney struggles to free his limbs from his bedding , nearly falling off the bed in the process, and stands, managing to grab the phone off the charger and push 'talk' just as Carol reaches the end of 'one'. "Breakfast, doughnuts, coffee, eight o'clock. Goodbye Eleanor."

He shuts the phone off. And there is silence for an entire seven minutes before Tom wakes up.

xxxx

Despite already playing two games through the morning and afternoon, Nellie's muscles blaze with energy. Which might also be due to the three coffees, four gatorades, and litre bottle of coke she's drunk so far today. Her only complaint is that her equipment hasn't had the chance to dry yet.

Since looking at the revised schedule at four-thirty that morning, before her first game, Nellie has been looking forward to seven o'clock with a growing, restless anticipation. Thanks to her team's winning streak, and an almost incredulous number of goals by a certain barber, she will be meeting Todd in the playoffs. In the finals, and not a moment sooner. She hadn't expected either of them to get this far (in which case they would have already played and be heading home), but in her opinion, it's worth the wait.

She is leaning against the wall beside the water fountain, sipping the last of the jumbo root beer Tom brought her and waiting for the Zamboni to finish cleaning the ice, when Sweeney walks out of his dressing room. His helmet is tucked under the crook of his arm, his stick held tightly in his opposite glove, and he looks for all the world like a conquering hero. Her knight in plastic, fibreglass, and synthetic compound armour. This new gear bulks him up nicely – not that he needs any extra, the whipcord muscles on that man are like steel, even after hundreds of years – and gives him a few extra inches of height, pristine white jersey hanging nearly to his knees and rustling gently when he walks. She has to bury her face in her paper cup to keep from staring.

She only wishes Tom could have waited to give him this new gear until she had given his team at a solid thrashing.

Sweeney turns down the hallway to the doors, following the rest of his team at a distance. Nellie slurps the last of her root beer and drops the cup, scrambling to pick up her helmet, gloves, and stick without falling over, and bounds after him as fast as she can; thanks to her goalie pads, her brisk run turns into more of a retarded penguin waddle. She pulls up beside him, and he spares only a brief glance, holding the door for her to move past him and around the corner.

"Nervous?" she asks, smiling and swatting his shin pads with her stick. He barely blinks – the focus on his stolid face is incredible.

"Hardly."

"You should be. I'll 'ave you know that Carol an' Tom are both cheerin' for me."

"Congratulations."

"An' a bunch of your students are 'ere. Apparently bein' on YouTube 'as its perks... I'm pretty sure 'alf of them are cheerin' for me too."

This time he doesn't even answer.

Nellie rolls her eyes. "Come on, love. This called trash-talk, an' it's not meant to be played alone. Say somethin'. The zamboni's almost done."

But he just pulls his hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ears in a move she finds painfully endearing and lifts his helmet one-handed onto his head. The door to the rink swings open and the players in front of them begin to file onto the ice. Nellie pulls her mask over her face and whacks her pads with her stick, creating a 'boom' which echoes around the chilly air. She butts in front of Todd and has one skate on the ice when he finally speaks.

"I will personally thrash you, Eleanor."

She grins and flips around, skating backwards towards her net. "You can try."

xxxx

Bloody hell, he's been trying.

For one, Eleanor must have used each moment of her not insubstantial years to prepare for this game, because she seems to know Sweeney's every move as well as she knows him. And secondly, Eleanor's team must have looked at the stats, because their personal crusade is to keep the puck away from him at whatever cost. Such a task isn't easy, but they are ruthlessly efficient. And there are many of them and only one of him.

The new gear has helped, admittedly. He's faster, sturdier, more agile than he's ever been, flying over the ice, but he still can't seem to get the puck into the net. And his team trailing for the first time in the tournament, 2-0.

Growling under his breath, Sweeney opens the door and climbs onto the bench, sitting down with a huff of air. He peels his helmet off and sprays freezing water from his bottle over his face, letting the drops cool his skin before wiping them away with his sleeve. He hunches forward and rests his forehead against the boards in front of him, glad that they're being offered a ten minute intermission between periods and intending to take full advantage of it.

"'Ow's that thrashing coming along, love?"

Sweeney groans, opening his eyes a crack to stare at Eleanor, who has her mask tipped up away from her face, a bottle of Gatorade (complete with a straw she got from who-knows-where) in hand.

"Go away."

"Someone's in a mood."

Sweeney sighs, suddenly exhausted under the weight of a few centuries of aches and pains. "I'm not in a mood."

Nellie snorts. "You're just sore because you got shut down by a girl."

"I was hardly 'shut down'." Most of his attempted shots had been sabotaged by her team before they even amounted to anything.

She quirks an eyebrow and sips her drink. "Oh?"

"I was only just warming up."

"Shut down, warming up. You sound like a computer, love." She grasps the straw between her fingers and pulls it out, sucking the droplets of Gatorade from the end. She throws it at him. It lands on his neck and begins to slide down his shirt. " An' I completely robbed you, don't deny it."

Sweeney brushes the straw away and stands up, climbing over the boards and onto the ice. He looks down at her and sneers. "Awfully high and mighty with all your hockey terminology, aren't you?"

Nellie grins and he regrets letting her suck him in to this game. "I'm sorry, love, I can't 'ear you over the sound of how awesome I am." She rinses her face off with the water bottle and squirts a stream into her mouth. "An' to prove it, 'ow about a proposition?"

Sweeney narrows his eyes. "No."

"You chicken?"

He scowls, snapping a little too quickly, "No."

She jams her fists under her arms as best as she can with the goalie equipment on, and begins to flap her elbows around, drawing attention and a few scattered cheers from the college students in the stand. Another YouTube phenomenon waiting to happen.

He sighs. "What kind of proposition?"

"The loser of tournament makes winner breakfast for a week."

He considers it for a moment, but the image of Eleanor waiting on him every morning, tray in hand, is too much to pass up. "Deal." They shake, her bare hand nearly engulfed in the navy-blue material of his glove.

The buzzer sounds and she tosses her empty bottle over the boards, managing to land it perfectly in a nearby garbage can. And then she laces her fingers through the bars of her mask and pulls it down over her face, glaring up at him like an animal through a cage. "Bring it on, razor-boy."

xxxx

2-1, beginning of the third period.

Sweeney breaks past the defender, legs working overtime to carry him further and further with each stride, chasing the puck like his life depends on it. And in some ways, it does. Or at least his pride does. He weaves around the boards, bouncing the puck off his skate and onto his stick, looking for an opening to pass. He narrowly avoids a check – the wind from his opponent cools the sweat on his face – and takes off again, making a beeline along the side of the ice towards Eleanor's net.

One minute, Sweeney Todd is racing down the boards, and the next he's crashing headlong into the glass, the blade of his opponent's stick hooked around his calf, pulling his leg out from under him. The side of his face smashes into the cold glass and he feels an explosion of warmth as the skin over his cheekbone splits, oozing blood down his chin. He grits his teeth and claws at the boards to keep standing, failing and dropping to one knee.

The referee blows the whistle, but Todd doesn't hear it over the buzz in his ears. It starts out like a whine at first, the high-pitched ringing of a serious blow to the head. But then it grows, pulsing with the beat in his throat, and turns into a blistering roar he hasn't heard for years.

His vision is red, maybe because he smeared the blood up over his face – the sticky liquid is too familiar, too comfortable on his skin for him to really notice or care – or maybe just because he wants nothing more than to club his own hockey stick across the other man's head. He struggles to gain his balance, blinking, and spots his assailant, jersey number Eleven, arguing with the referee about the penalty.

Todd skates over, taps him on the shoulder, and punches him square in the nose the moment he turns around. The subsequent crunch brings a smile to Todd's numbing face. He throws his gloves to the ground and brings his fist around to the back of the man's head, pushing past the referees to slam Eleven into the boards, buffeting his face to the cheering of the crowd.

"Get 'im, Mister T!"

Todd pauses for a moment, his gaze flicking to Eleanor, who pounds her stick on the ice along in time with the steady clapping from the stands. Her helmet sits on the back of the net, hair spilling over her shoulders like fire against her navy jersey. The look on her face is exactly the same as the last hockey game, her words a mirror of his fight she'd watched and fully enjoyed while the other women discreetly looked the other way.

Eleven's helmet falls to the ground, and Todd looks back just in time to get a fist to the eye. He growls and the man pushes him away from the boards; Todd grabs a handful of his jersey in one hand to keep him from escaping. Todd has no intention of letting him get away. They begin to circle, a spinning, dizzying dance, weaving and bobbing and ducking, throwing punches that connect with equipment more often than not. Eleven grapples Todd's helmet off and his fist connects with the gash in his cheek.

Todd's knuckles split on Eleven's teeth, and the man goes down. When he falls, Todd grabs the back of his jersey and pulls it up over his head – the ultimate sign of finality.

Taking advantage the lull in action, the referees skate between Todd and his opponent. It takes both to pull Todd away, one on each side. They shout some vague instructions in Todd's ear, pointing him to the penalty box, where an on-call volunteer paramedic (unsurprising, considering it's a hospital charity game) waits with a small box of supplies and a concerned look. Satisfied that Eleven's face matches his own, Todd sits on the bench and slams the door shut, poking his head out only long enough to watch the other man stumble, much less gracefully, into the other box. He leans back and accepts the water bottle from the medic, spraying the cold water over his face and wiping it with his sleeve, which comes away red.

He lets the man poke, prod, clean, and bandage the deeper cut on his cheek, which "will only need stitches if you try something like that again", but waves him off before he can look at the split lip and the gash above his eyebrows. He doesn't need a medic to tell him that they're only minor scratches.

Faux-hawk skates past when the referees call the next faceoff, and leans against the boards. "Hey. Don't shoot the messenger, but your goalie girlfriend over there told me to tell you she thinks that was hot."

Todd follows his gaze to look at Nellie, who waits, crouched and ready to spring, at the edge of her crease. "She's hardly my girlfriend." It was bad enough having this conversation with Nellie on Halloween, let alone with a complete stranger.

He shrugs. "Whatever you say, man. But maybe she should be – I mean, she's pretty in to you. Did you see the look on her face?" He nods approvingly, staring a quick glance over his shoulder when the referee waves him over and starts yelling at him. "Anyways, yeah, she thinks it's hot. But she also told me to tell you that she'll be pissed if your face stays like that forever." He starts to skate away, but then turns back, much to the annoyance of the referee, who threatens to throw him in the box along with Todd for delay of game. "Oh yeah. And 'nana-nana-boo-boo.', whatever that's about." He shrugs, and the game resumes.

Todd wonders how many more centuries it will take before people leave his love life alone.

xxxx

Sudden death overtime. 2-2.

Nellie hooks her arms over the crossbar of the net, leaning back and sighing. They're entering the second half of the twenty-minute period of overtime, but so far most of the play has been in Sweeney's end, giving her a little time to relax and enjoy the game for its own sake. Usually, situations like this leave her bored, but this time it's a welcome break.

The last few games gave her enough of a workout to stay in shape for at least another two hundred years. Playing four games of hockey in a row, after years of absence from the game, wasn't her best move – her poor bones are about to drop. As soon as she goes home, she plans on sleeping for at least a week. And then when she wakes up, she'll spend at least another week expending only enough energy to read the paper and drink a cup of coffee.

Nellie divides her attention between the clock, the action, and the crowd. The red, electronic numbers tick down on the scoreboard; each second builds the pressure and increases the crowd's steady hum of energy. Nellie thrives on the edge it gives her, grateful of the way it replaces the dwindling effects of caffeine. Down at the other end, Sweeney's goalie catches the puck in his glove and holds it for the faceoff. Nellie glances at Carol, who is surrounded by Nellie's following of college students, and salutes. Carol takes the opportunity to leap to her feet and start the wave, which continues all the way down the line, even through 'Professor Todd's' following of Tom and co.

And Sweeney flies towards her like a rocket, puck on the end of his stick.

Only seconds ago he had been sitting in the penalty box after another tussle with Jensen (who can't seem to go for ten minutes without antagonizing the man), and now he's half-way down the ice. Which, for a split second, doesn't make sense. But those numbers ticking down were also his penalty minutes and his team had shot the puck down the ice... past the defence... just as his penalty had run out. And he had received it. Past the defence.

Nellie tightens her grip on her stick and shrugs her arms off the net, crouching into a solid position and skating out a bit further to confront him, blocking off the angle and leaving him no opening to shoot. She follows the puck with her eyes as he dangles it back and forth, his powerful strides pushing it closer and closer. Matching his speed, she skates backward, keeping her body between him and the net.

He winds up, drawing his stick back to his hip, and fakes a shot. Nellie nearly falls for it, dropping to one knee. He tries to pull the puck around her, but she recovers too quickly, hopping back to her feet and pushing off in one smooth motion to counter him when he tries to drag it around her left side and slide it past her. Shooting her a final, frantic scowl at being bested, he fires the puck up off the backhand. It thuds solidly into her helmet and pops straight up. And then comes down. Right onto his stick, and into the empty net, top corner, just out of her reach.

She watches the puck drop – slow-motion – back to the ice, and groans. The crowd explodes with noise, approval mixed with disappointment. She doesn't get up off her knees, glaring up at Todd with a tight coil of irritation in her stomach. He stares back down at her with an expression nothing short of superiority.

"Alright, alright, thrashin' delivered," she grumbles, clambering to her feet and peeling her helmet off, guzzling the rest of her water bottle.

It takes Todd's team less than ten seconds to bury him in a dog pile. His strangled cries are so satisfying that she struggles to maintain her sorrowful expression when she skates over to her bench, giving a shrug to her teammates, who congratulate her despite the loss. They pat her on the back, whack her in the pads. Jensen even pulls her into a hug, and she contemplates yelling at Todd, hoping to get his attention and maybe a bit of jealousy.

Although, she has a feeling that he wouldn't be able to hear her over the sound of how awesome he is.

xxxx

When Todd moves to sit in the passenger's seat of the car, Nellie slams the door in his face. "Where do you think you're goin'?"

Sweeney scowls, draws himself up to his full height and stares down at her. "Home."

Nellie props her hands on her hips. "Not like that you bloody aren't." She smacks his hand away from the door handle.

He's been gone for over twelve hours, his face hasn't been so battered since the second World War, and he'd had to wait for what seemed like hours while Eleanor chatted with her teammates and ate pizza. This is not the time for games. Except that Eleanor doesn't look like she's joking. He glares at her and opens the door anyways, planting one food inside the car.

Nellie grabs his collar and hauls him back. "Love, don't even think about it. You're showering."

Fixing his shirt, Todd stares at her, incredulous. Has she lost her mind? "No."

"Why bloody not? You smell like a troll."

Turning his head subtly to the side, Todd sniffs the air. He hardly smells as bad as she thinks. Like sweat, granted, and blood, but those scents are hardly foreign to either of them. He shifts his jaw in annoyance, and recites his answer with as much conviction as a doctrinal creed. "Public showers are akin to the level of humiliation displayed at the stockades. In fact, I'd much rather have vegetables thrown in my face."

Nellie bursts out laughing. "I remember that, too! That was bloody 'ilarious, it was."

He grimaces, and scowls. "Thank you for bringing up such a painful memory."

"You mentioned it first, love. Anyways, I am not lettin' you in my car smelling like..." she wrinkles her nose and scents the air. "Tom's sister's 'usband's hockey equipment. You reek, love. Shower up."

"And you?"

Nellie scoffs. "I'm a woman. I don't _reek._ I'm aromatic. Plus, I'm 'aving one as soon as we get home." She slams the door and locks it, dropping the keys down her shirt.

Todd stares at her chest for a moment, wide-eyed, teeth clenched, and then looks away. "And why do I not have the same option?" Probably because he scored on her.

She smiles, disgustingly sweet. "My car. My apartment. My shower. My rules."

She follows him back into the arena, and when he turns down the hallway to the dressing rooms, she returns to the lobby for more pizza.

xxxx

Nellie lifts a big bowl of warm water from the coffee table onto Sweeney's lap and tosses a facecloth into it, spraying droplets everywhere. He scowls, glancing down to the sloshing water that rests precariously on his lap, and wisely stays still as she brushes his hair back from his forehead and scrubs at his eyebrow. He grunts, but remains silent, flicking channels between talk shows, reruns, and late movies.

When the scratches above eyebrow looks clean (she dips her finger in the water to smooth the hairs back into place and smiles at him when he glares at her from the corner of his vision), she hands him an ice-pack for his eye and moves to his cheek. Gently peeling the bandage from Sweeney's face, Nellie stares at the gash and winces. She settles on her knees beside him, sinking down into the couch cushion, and runs her finger along his cheek beside the wound. The corners strain, like his face might split in two, and little bits of adhesive cling to the edges of his skin, the surrounding area an angry red that matches the drying blood. "Ooh, love, that looks nasty."

"And I'd appreciate it you stopped jabbing your finger in it," he growls, staring down at the t.v. guide, glancing between it and the television.

"Well if you'd keep still, I'd 'ave a bit easier time." She gently dabs at his face with the cloth, cleaning dutifully, gently, reaching into her back pocket with her free hand. She pulls out an antiseptic towelette and opens the packet with her teeth. "Sweeney?"

"Mm?"

"This might 'urt."

Putting the washcloth back in the bowl on his lap, Nellie opens the towelette up and presses it to his face.

He yelps and jumps to his feet, eyes wide, hand clamped over his cheek. The water bowl wobbles uselessly, upside-down on the floor, a pool of water creeping across the floor. "Bloody hell, Eleanor," he says, bringing his fingertips away from his face, staring at them like they should be covered in blood.

"Love, you're steppin' in the water."

He grits his teeth, eyebrows tightly knit above his stinging gaze. "That hurt."

Rolling her eyes, she huffs, shrugging and twisting around to sit on the couch with her knees drawn up to her chin. She has no intention of soaking her socks like Sweeney. "Told you so." She pats the cushion beside her. "I'm almost done, sit down."

"What're you doing?" he demands, crossing his arms over his chest. "The medic already cleaned it."

"Because it's what I do."

Todd raises an eyebrow. Next explanation.

"You were sweatin' a lot since then." Nellie shrugs. "Could get infected."

They both know it can't. Todd frowns, looking annoyed.

She stares at him for a moment, and sighs. "I'm not mad at you for winnin', you know."

He blinks once and she knows her guess was right.

"None of this 'as anythin' to do with that. I'm just glad you played with me, love. An' I really didn't mean to 'urt you. The disinfectant was just habit, I guess."

Todd's scowl lessens slightly. "Then why are you doing this?"

She shrugs. And then she smiles, the corner of her mouth twitching upward until the grin spreads across her face. "Guess I jus' wanted to." She pats the cushion again until he treads through the water to sit beside her again. She crumples the towlette and tosses it onto the coffee table. "Guess I jus' like fixin' you up." She pauses, tucks his hair behind his ear, and then adds "Stud that you are," for good measure, enjoying the way his mouth twists up beneath her touch.

He raises an eyebrow. "In that case," he says, voice low, a deep growl in his chest that travels through her entire body and turns her knees into mush, "I think you missed some."

Nellie frowns. "Love, I'm a doctor, I did not-" and then the t.v. flashes the bright white of an advertisement, and she sees the line of red gleaming on his lip, which is curled up in a barely visible smile. Her smile spreads. "Well, look at that." She sighs, running her finger along the tiny cut, and leans in close to whisper in his ear. "Want me to get the antiseptic again?"

He leans in closer. "No." And shuts off the t.v. She smiles in the darkness, catching his lip between her teeth, his fingers tangled in her hair.

This was why she wanted to clean him up.

xxxx

When Nellie's cellphone alarm goes off at seven, Todd wakes up feeling like he's been run over by a train. Besides the fact that his lip is split open again, this time far worse than after the hockey game, besides the single line of dried blood that runs from his cheek, down his face and chin, besides his one eye that is nearly swollen shut, he had slept crooked. And the couch shows no mercy. He groans and shifts positions, unable to turn his head, grimacing every time he tries. He swears loudly and Nellie groans, mumbling a vague "what?" that is more reaction than consciousness. He sighs. "My neck hurts."

Still half asleep, she yawns and nestles closer to him, wrapping the blanket more tightly around herself. "Stop whinin'."

Todd grunts. He pushes her off and sits up, hissing through his teeth. "I'm not whining, pet. I'm stating a fact."

Nellie groans and moves her head from his chest to his lap. "State it quieter, I'm supposed to be sleeping."

Todd rolls his neck and muffles a gasp. It pops loudly, thankfully relieving the pressure. "No you're not."

Nellie sits up, blinking, bleary-eyed, and stares at him. "Love, neither of us 'ave work until noon."

"We have a deal..." he pauses for effect, absorbing the shock on her face as she absorbs his words. "I'd like three eggs, some French Toast, sausage, and hash browns."

She groans, banging her head back against the back of the couch. "I'm going to smother you with a pillow."

He smiles. "After you make me breakfast."

xxxx

Todd's students file in to the classroom and take their seats. Todd closes his book and stands, beginning a slow pace of the floor until everyone is seated. He clears his throat to get their attention.

"Before we begin today's quiz on the Crimean War that I am sure you all studied for," he waits until the groans subside before continuing, "I have a few quick questions." He holds up a finger. "One: how many of you attended at least one of the games in the hospital hockey tournament this past weekend?" Around twenty hands go up.

"Excellent. Five extra marks." An extra hand sneaks its way up and Sweeney scowls. "Miss Abbot, five marks off." The hand goes down again. "Question Two: How many of you cheered for my team?" Four hands go down. Sweeney begins to point at students. "You, you, you, you, and yes, you also, Mister Cooper, five marks off. You're all lying." He scans the crowd a moment. "Mister Russell," he points to Kurtis and glares, "_ten_ points off."

"Aw, come on Professor, that's not fair."

He puts his hand up to silence the protest. "If you think I'm in the wrong, you can hold a public burning of your 'Boo Professor' sign that you brought to the game last night. As humorous as I'm sure it was, there is incriminating proof of your unfaithfulness. The rest of you with your hands still up, thank you for the support, and you may skip this test entirely. Passing grade."

After handing out the papers, Sweeney digs his small trophy out of his coat pocket and places on the corner of his desk, straightening it slightly.

Monday morning has never felt quite so good.

* * *

**A/N: **A big thanks to everyone who's read this, and of course a gigantastic thanks to Pam.

ILY Pam. You rock.

Merry Christmas.


End file.
